


I Hope For A Trace (To Lead Me Back Home)

by sunbeamsandmoonrays



Series: Irish Mythology AUs [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Transformation, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Forbidden Love, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Stark, Magic, Mutual Pining, Sansa Stark is a goddess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbeamsandmoonrays/pseuds/sunbeamsandmoonrays
Summary: While out hunting with his men in the Wolfswood, King Jon comes across a red she-wolf.  But not everything is as it seems.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Irish Mythology AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763872
Comments: 93
Kudos: 118
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2020





	1. The Red Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanetjuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanetjuh/gifts).



> Based on the Irish myth of Finn Mac Cumhaill and Sadhbh || Title is from the song Wolf by First Aid Kit. || For fanetjuh, I hope you enjoy!! Happy holidays to you and to anyone reading this. Please R&R!

He breathes in and breathes out, his exhale forming a cloud of mist in front of him. Despite the fact that the leaves on the Wolfwood’s trees are still the vibrant green of summer, the chill of autumn hangs in the air. Soon, frost will cover the forest floor and the tree limbs, and the greens will be replaced by reds, oranges, and yellows. As his house words proclaim, winter is coming.

Jon readjusts his hold on his bow, the leather of his gloves gripping the yew wood. His gray eyes scan his surroundings intently. Through the foliage, he sees it. A flash of brown amidst the green – a large buck with antlers as wide as Jon is tall.

His target. 

He nocks an arrow and draws it. His eyes never leave the buck as it ambles into the clearing ahead. Lucky for Jon…not so lucky for the poor creature. He lets the arrow fly…

And it misses, for the buck flees at the right moment. Jon curses under his breath, and he hears a couple of groans of sympathy and murmured condolences from the others in the hunting party.

“There’s still time to track it, sire,” someone proposes. Jon considers it a moment.

“No,” he eventually decides. “We’ll let him be.” He steps out into the clearing to retrieve his arrow. He wonders what could have frightened the buck…one of the hunting party, mayhap? Instinct tells Jon that it’s something else, and so he scans the area once more as he pries the arrow free from the trunk of a sentinel.

He sees nothing amiss. _Maybe the buck was easily spooked_ , he thinks. Just as he returns the arrow in its sheath, he hears the undergrowth nearby shift, and a wolf with russet colored fur steps out from the shadows. Jon freezes in shock. Over the pounding of his heart, he can faintly hear his men ready their bows and other weapons in defense of their king. The wolf does not budge throughout the commotion, however, her eyes focusing on Jon the entire time.

Her vivid, blue eyes. A type of blue he has never seen on a wolf before.

Jon is suddenly reminded of the tales his Old Nan would tell him when he was a child, stories about when the old gods still roamed this world. They would often disguise themselves in various forms, sometimes to hide, but mostly to test the mortals. He may be idiotic in thinking so, but he feels as if this is one of those times.

“Stop,” he orders quietly but firmly. “Sheath your arrows.”

“But Your Grace - ”

“She’s no threat,” he assures. Cautiously, Jon kneels to the ground and peels off his glove. He holds his hand out for the wolf to sniff. “Aren’t you?” he addresses her. When she hesitantly approaches him and does so, he smiles (out of relief…not that he would tell his men that, though).

“You’ll be safe at Winterfell, sweet lady,” he whispers, giving her head a gentle scratch.

* * *

The procession back to Winterfell is certainly a strange one, with the red she-wolf leading the way. Many smallfolk stop in the middle of their tasks or exit their homes to openly gape at them as they pass by. Jon doesn’t blame their curiosity, though he does worry that the growing crowd will make the wolf uneasy. If she is, though, she doesn’t show it; the only skittish ones are the horses if they venture too close (and mayhap even their riders for thinking their king has gone mad). 

When they arrive, Jon leaves his horse with the stable hands and leads the she-wolf inside the castle, earning more wide-eyed stares in their wake. They don’t wander far, for Old Nan is exactly where he thought she would be…knitting by the fire in the Great Hall. The elderly woman gives them a nonplussed onceover before resuming her knitting. Of course, Old Nan would be the only one not surprised by Jon’s new guest.

“Well boy, out with it.”

Snapping out of his musings, Jon tells her what occurred at the hunt. “I remembered your stories, and now she won’t leave my side,” he finishes somewhat sheepishly.

Old Nan pauses in her knitting once more and glances at him, eyes twinkling knowingly. “Did you now? Smart lad.” She sets her work, knitting needles and all, down in the basket at her feet and beckons the she-wolf to approach her. Jon observes as Old Nan places her gnarled hands on either side of the wolf’s head and proceeds to stare deeply into her eyes. He finds himself holding his breath for some strange reason, not wanting to disrupt whatever is happening. And finally, Old Nan speaks: “The old gods will not punish us for killing one of their own.” 

“So it’s true, then? She’s one of them? One of the old gods?”

She nods solemnly. “She’s a far way from home. And she’s not in this form willingly.” 

Jon shifts from side to side as he grows concerned. Who could be powerful enough to do this? To a deity, no less? “A curse, then? How will she change back?”

“I’m not sure.” Old Nan straightens and releases the wolf from her hold. Catching his expression, she says, “I wouldn’t worry too much, Your Grace. The she-wolf is where she needs to be.”

“Yes, Old Nan,” he replies, contrite.

* * *

That night, Jon rests uneasily. He had earned more stares from his servants when he ordered a room be made ready for their new guest. He wonders now if it would have been better to keep her in his sights, but would that be improper? He doesn’t know the decorum of treating with an ensorcelled goddess.

The door to his chambers creaks open. He distinctly remembers that he bolted it before retiring. He sits up with a start…in the same moment a woman walks through the doorway.

In the firelight, her long, flowing hair looks scarlet. She is wearing a fine gown of white velvet and lace that exposes the creamy pale skin of her shoulders. Atop her head lies a crown of interwoven weirwood branches. She seems to almost glide into his chambers, but stops short when she sees that he’s awake. “Do not be afraid, King Stark. I mean you no harm.” Her voice is low and melodic.

In a daze, Jon replies, “You were able to change back.”

“I – yes. The old protective magic within these walls helped me. Without your hospitality, I would still be a wolf, so I thank you.” Though her gratitude seems genuine and her courtesies are impeccable, Jon notes an air of wariness about her. A wariness about _him_ , he thinks.

“You’re welcome, my lady.” Jon hesitates briefly, before continuing. “I don’t know of your situation, but you can stay as long as you like. You are protected under guest right.”

Her lips part in surprise, before her mask slips back in place. “I thank you again, King S-”

“You can call me Jon,” he interrupts, giving her a small smile. She only nods in acknowledgment.

“I’ll let you retire now, King Jon.” 

“I can escort you, my lady,” he offers, cursing inwardly when he realizes his state of undress.

“I know the way,” the lady assures politely, already halfway to the door. But just before she steps out of his chambers, she pauses. “You can call me Sansa,” she tells him softly. She then slips away, the door creaking shut behind her.


	2. The Choice

Sansa is not as powerful here as she would have been centuries ago. The Children have all but died off. More and more weirwoods have either been burned away or chopped down. She can feel the magic of this world slowly drain away to nothing. But she does what she can to help the people of Winterfell as her way of thanks.

She sings ancient songs of strength and good health, of growth, of warmth and sunlight. And it seems to work – Sansa notices that everything around her is lighter…as if a shadow has been lifted from the place.

And as a more personal expression of gratitude, Sansa sews something for the two people who helped her most. She enchants both items with spells of protection, and only when she’s completely satisfied with her needlework does she gift them.

For Old Nan, Sansa makes a wool dress inlaid with fur for extra warmth. The elderly woman is delighted at her gift, and she pinches Sansa’s cheeks for good measure.

For Jon Stark, Sansa makes a cloak that she hopes is worthy for the King in the North. He becomes very quiet when she presents it to him, and she begins to worry that he is displeased for some reason. But she needn’t have fretted, for when Jon looks up at her, his normally solemn face is alight with a quiet joy.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he says sincerely, his gray eyes piercing.

Her breath catches and she finds herself blushing under his gaze…before she internally scolds herself. _You cannot_. Sansa manages to awkwardly reply with a, “You’re welcome,” before she scurries away, willing herself to not look back the entire time. 

* * *

In her youth, she was a romantic. She had loved the mortals’ songs depicting love and devotion, both the sad and the happy. And because of that, she had become fascinated with the mortal world, and she had wanted to visit it someday. Long before she was born, travel between worlds was as easy as stepping through a doorway…but with magic in the mortal world dwindling, her father had no choice but to close the way.

And Varamyr took advantage of that.

He was one of the most powerful beings in Father’s court: a skinchanger and a practitioner of magic – both light and dark. Sansa was always uneasy around the man; she never liked how his dark, hooded eyes would follow her every move. But one day, he confessed to her that he knew a secret way to the mortal world, and when he offered to take her there, she naively accepted.

 _He_ was the one who turned her into a wolf and abandoned her to wander the mortal realm for years and years, forcing her to go against her very nature to kill other creatures because she was starving, avoiding many a human hunter who would have killed her for sport…all because she refused his love when he offered it to her.

There is a bitterness now when she thinks of those songs of romance.

“What are you thinking about?” 

If Sansa could sigh, she would. The only way to converse with her family is through the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood. While she is grateful that she has a way to contact them, she can only speak to them by thought. _Just the follies of my youth_ , she tells her sister.

Arya rolls her eyes as she takes a seat on the forest floor. “We _told_ you already. What happened to you wasn’t your fault. Varamyr manipulated you.” She tugs a clump of grass from the ground viciously. “If he ever shows his ugly face here again, I’ll run him through with my sword.”

“Not if I get to him first,” another voice utters darkly. It’s Robb, though Sansa can’t see where he is. Hiding, as he’s done ever since her first visit.

 _Varamyr is smart enough to avoid being caught by you_ , Sansa points out. _Even I haven’t seen a sign of him. But I have informed King Jon about him, and he has told his guards to be on constant alert._

“And that’s what worries me most!” Robb retorts. He comes out of his hiding place, then, his blue eyes blazing, his lips downturned in an uncharacteristic sneer. For a moment, she sees the shadow of a wolf in his expression. “Even behind Winterfell’s walls, you’re still too vulnerable – your precious mortal king and his guards cannot protect you always.”

_Why are you referring to King Jon like that?_

Arya stops attacking the grass and stills, her dark eyes shifting between her two older siblings warily.

Robb laughs disbelievingly. “Have you not listened to yourself? He’s all you spoke about the last time you were here.”

Sansa bristles, her anger strong enough to rustle the weirwood’s leaves. _He saved my life. **Of course** I would speak about him with admiration!_

“Admiration is not the word I would use, sister. You may disdain the humans’ songs now, but you act as if the Stark king is the very hero you used to sigh over.” And with that, Robb turns away and storms off.

Sansa is stunned silent for a few moments, before looking down at Arya. _What was that all about?_ she demands.

Arya winces, and fiddles with her long braid nervously. “Robb is just…worried about you.”

_He has a peculiar way of showing it._

“Your disappearance really affected him, Sansa. I think he feels guilty over not looking after you enough. And…he fears that you won’t want to return home.”

_Because of Jon? That’s ridiculous! Going home is all I’ve wanted ever since I was put under Varamyr’s curse._

“Is it _still_ all you want?” 

Guilt stabs at Sansa. _Even if you were right, do you truly think me that selfish? Especially after you’re all trying so hard to get me back?_

“No, of course not,” Arya reassures. She stands and gives her a wistful smile. “I was just letting you know what we see.”

Sansa pulls back with a harsh gasp and drops her hands from the heart tree’s carved face and onto the earth below. She struggles to get her breathing under control, which is near impossible considering her limbs are trembling with the utmost exertion.

“Oh.” She whips around and sees King Jon standing before her. He’s wearing the cloak she made him…which fills her with an almost possessive pride, until she remembers her brother’s words from moments before.

_“You act as if the Stark king is the very hero you used to sigh over.”_

Sansa tears her gaze away from him, busying herself with rearranging her skirts underneath her.

“Forgive me,” she hears Jon say. “I didn't mean to intrude.”

She makes sure her polite mask is firmly in place before she looks up at him again. “You weren't intruding,” she assures. “I use the heart tree to speak to my family. Maintaining a connection takes its toll after a while.” Sansa notices more details about him this time – the bronze crown he prefers _not_ wearing is gleaming atop his dark curls, his mouth is downturned in a hard frown, and the pommel of his greatsword juts out from behind his shoulder. “Do I need to leave?”

He does not answer for a few charged moments. Then, “No, you can stay.”

Sansa remains where she is while Jon sits on one of the large stones in front of her. She watches as he unsheathes his sword, the dappled sunlight shining upon a stain marring the smoke-colored steel. Blood. Fresh blood. He has killed someone today…and from the stiff set of his back and shoulders, Sansa surmises that he did not enjoy doing it. She feels like she should not talk…and so she is quiet as he procures an oilcloth and begins to methodically wipe the sword clean. The tension in his shoulders gradually diminishes with each stroke.

When the sword is laying across Jon’s lap, Sansa chances speaking. “…May I ask what happened?”

Jon sighs. “An execution. He was a rapist. I gave him a choice – the Wall or death. He chose the latter.”

“And you performed it yourself?” She moves to sit next to him.

“My grandfather always said whoever passes the sentence, should swing the sword.”

“Wise words.”

He nods in agreement. “He was a good king…and a good man. He raised me after my father died.”

She longs to reach out to him, but her siblings’ words hold her back. “I'm sorry,” she murmurs.

“It was long ago. I was a boy.” He smiles, but the quiet sorrow in his eyes tells the real truth; he still grieves the loss deeply. 

She can’t help it – she takes his hand in hers, and squeezes gently. “Well, your grandfather did well in raising you. You are a good man, Jon Stark.”

Their conversation is at an end, but neither Jon nor Sansa move from their spot underneath the heart tree. They remain seated, hands intertwined, and listen to the leaves whisper to one another. 


	3. The Farewell

Jon sighs as he wipes Ice clean again. He had to perform another execution – this time a deserter of the Night’s Watch. In his youth, he often wondered why his grandfather would perform this task in the godswood of all places – surely the solar would be more comfortable – but now that the mantle of kingship has passed to him, he understands. Being in the godswood gives him an inner peace that he would not find anywhere else, especially now, given his current company.

_Swipe._

Jon surreptitiously glances over his shoulder. Sansa is still in the deep trance he found her in when he got here, her long hair spilling down her back like liquid copper, a delicate hand placed on the weirwood trunk.

Jon turns away hastily.

_Swipe._

He thinks back to the deserter and wonders, like he does with the others before, why he would forsake his vows. Were the conditions in the far north too harsh for him? Did he start to have doubts about the things he swore to give up: title, lands, a family…a wife? Jon used to think nothing would make him stray from his duties as a king, but now…

_Swipe._

Ice is gleaming once more, so Jon puts the greatsword back in its scabbard and sets it down beside him…before he does something rash like toss the whole thing into the pool in front of him. His mind is still restless, his thoughts flitting between the presence behind him and the deserter, so he tries to clear it completely by watching the snow fall gently around him.

It’s been like this since dawn, only a mere three days after they received the white raven from the Citadel announcing the official arrival of autumn. It hasn’t been enough to cover the ground yet, for which Jon is grateful. He worries it will be a harsh winter.

A gasp breaks through the silence. Sansa. He keeps his eyes forward while she composes herself, and only when he no longer hears the sounds of movement does he turn around.

“Any news?”

“Yes.” With her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, it almost hurts to look at her. “They found a way back. Bran says it’s one of Varamyr’s secret passages. There’s not a lot of magic holding it together, but it should be enough to get me through.”

She’s leaving.

Jon should be happy for Sansa reuniting with her family, and he is, but something within him shatters at the realization that he’ll never see her again.

“That’s wonderful, Sansa,” his voice dull even to his own ears.

* * *

He pushes aside his pain and his selfish desires as he helps her prepare for her journey. The doorway to the magical passage is far down south at the Isle of Faces, so he takes care in the selection of an armed escort and other provisions she would need. Sooner than he would like, everything is arranged, and he can’t think of any more reasons to delay her departure.

It is Sansa’s last night in Winterfell. 

Jon invites her into his solar for a private meal together, and he updates her on the preparations he made. He finds himself gazing at her the entire time, memorizing every small detail: the curve of her neck, the way her red hair flows over her shoulder, the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles, all of it.

(She never points out his staring, nor does he with her.)

When the last of their food is eaten, Sansa reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers, eyes shining. “Thank you. Truly. I can never repay your kindness.”

“Don’t,” he says gruffly, withdrawing his hand. “I’m only doing the right thing. If I did what I wanted - ” Unable to look at her anymore, Jon pushes away from the table and takes a few unsteady steps towards the fireplace, cursing himself for saying as much as he did.

Silence, save for the crackling of the fireplace and Jon’s own pounding heart. Sansa is so quiet, Jon wonders if she somehow magically spirited away. But he is wrong, for he hears the gentle scrape of her own chair against the rushes as she rises after him. “What? What do you want?” she softly implores.

“It’s selfish.”

“Still. Tell me.” He feels her hand curl around his arm as she gently turns him to face her once more. His already weak resolve crumbles. 

“I would beg you to stay,” he confesses.

She cups his face in her hands, giving him a devastatingly sad smile. “And if I was selfish, I would.”

Her words give Jon the permission he needs to stop fighting the pull he feels, and so he finally gives in. He bends down and kisses her, the first tentative brush of his lips against her petal soft ones grounding him for the first time since that night in his chambers all those moons ago. And then she opens her mouth to him, her taste (like moonlight and spring rain, and something citrusy he can’t place) making him so lightheaded that he clutches her waist to remain upright. It’s beyond intoxicating – he feels like he could kiss her forever and never stop.

Which is why he must, and he does so with great reluctance. Still in a tight embrace, they take each other in: flushed skin, fever-bright eyes, swollen lips. 

_This one kiss is enough_ , Jon tries to reassure himself. _It has to be._

Sansa, though, thinks otherwise. “Don’t stop,” she whispers.

His heart clenches. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” There is no hesitation or doubt in Sansa’s eyes.

If they only have tonight, so be it. Jon kisses her once more, a brief one but no less passionate, before he takes her hand in his and leads her to his chambers. The door shuts resoundingly behind them.

* * *

He watches her leave from the ramparts, for if he sees her off in person, he would reach for her and never let her go. The snow falling around them reminds Jon of Sansa’s gentle touches and kisses, the wind of her sighs. He wonders if everything he sees now will make him think of their one night together. He hopes it does.

As if she could feel his eyes on her, Sansa looks up at him and smiles, her hair blowing behind her like a red banner. He tries to smile back, but he’s sure it looks more like a pained grimace than anything.

She turns from him then, listening to whatever one of her armed escort is telling her. She draws the hood of her cloak over her head. It is time, then.

Their horses are leading the small group through the gate. Just before hers goes through, Sansa looks back at him once more. She waves. Jon lifts his hand and does the same, making sure his smile is more genuine this time. Sansa is going home to her family. She will be where she belongs. And he will be where he belongs.

Jon watches until she is but a dark speck on the white horizon.


	4. The Boy

_“We heard a voice shout after us…we thought it was you, Your Grace, but it was only a mimicry…he killed all the guards except for me and took the Lady Sansa away…I’m sorry…”_

Those words have haunted Jon for the last eight years.

Sansa never returned home, never reunited with her family…and it was all Jon’s fault. He should have done more to protect her; he should have put more effort into finding that bastard Varamyr and killed him once and for all…but he didn’t, and now Sansa has disappeared without a trace.

But Jon hasn’t given up. He will never stop searching for her.

He ventures into the Wolfswood every chance he can…as much as his duties as King in the North allow. He must have searched every inch of the area, from its northern borders to all the way down to Castle Cerwyn and the Barrowlands. And though he has not spotted Sansa yet, in her wolf form or in her normal appearance, Jon knows deep down that she is near.

It is getting harder for Jon to travel too far from Winterfell, though. Winter has lasted for three years now, and with the deadly cold, snowfall that is several feet deep, and food getting scarce, it’s been as harsh as Jon had feared. Their dwindling food supply is actually the main reason he gathered a hunting party and set out today, though Jon keeps his eyes peeled for a flash of red against the endless grays and whites.

They get a lucky break in regards to their food situation. They catch many rabbits and a few deer. They have enough bounty to last them a while, thankfully. 

“Should we head back, Your Grace?”

They shouldn’t press their good fortune. Jon is starting to feel the bite of the winter wind through his heavy cloak (the very one Sansa made), and he knows one shouldn’t linger out here close to dark. Swallowing back his disappointment, he reluctantly replies, “Aye.” 

The journey back is slow-going with the added weight of the deer. The howling wind is not helping matters, and it’s setting Jon’s teeth on edge. But something sounds off about it. Jon strains his ears…the wind is not the only thing howling…his eyes widen in realization.

It’s the howl of a wolf.

“Sansa.”

“Your Grace, wait - !” But Jon whips the reins, and his horse takes off.

He knows subconsciously that he’s going about this all wrong – that he could be going in the wrong direction due to the way sound travels in a forest or that the wolf may not even _be_ Sansa…but his reason is being overruled by sheer desperation. He’s been searching for so long…and this is the first sign of her that he’s come across. He _has_ to know for sure.

Another howl. This time louder. He urges the horse even faster, and the trees whip by in dark blurs. He’s getting closer.

No, he’s already there.

He runs into not just one wolf, but an entire wolf pack. His horse rears up in fright at the sudden encounter, knocking Jon off its back. He lands on the ground hard, and though the snow gives him some cushioning, it still knocks the breath out of him. He wheezes, scrambling to find a weapon on his person to protect himself with and coming up with nothing. So, he braces himself for an attack…but it never comes.

Jon sits up slowly. His horse is long gone, but the wolves are still here, and they’ve completely surrounded him. Strangely, he is no longer afraid. This situation is too similar to what happened before.

He analyzes the gathered wolves eagerly, looking for a hint of red fur among them, but he only sees grays and the occasional black. Sansa’s not with them. Before he can curse from frustration, one of the wolves breaks the circle and steps towards him. Judging from his large size, he must be the alpha. Jon’s fear comes back. He knows he has a dagger tucked away in his boot somewhere, but he can’t reach for it while the alpha and the other wolves are staring with their intelligent golden eyes. So, Jon fights to stay completely still while the alpha ambles closer, and when he feels the wolf’s hot breath on his face, he can’t help but close his eyes.

But nothing happens, save for the wolf sniffing curiously at Jon’s hair.

Is that it?

Jon opens his eyes and sees that the alpha has returned to the circle’s edge, a human boy standing at his side.

Jon gasps.

The boy must be around six or seven years old, and he’s as naked as his nameday. His hair falls smoothly down his shoulders and ends almost at his elbows…but that’s not what catches Jon’s eye.

It’s that the hair is red.

The alpha nudges to boy forward, and Jon eagerly accepts him. He checks his feet and hands for frostbite, but amazingly his skin is unmarred. He looks at Jon with wide, blue eyes. “I won’t harm you,” he promises, but he’s not sure if the youth understands.

Jon looks around for the wolves, to somehow thank them, but they’re all gone…the only evidence of their being there are the pawprints in the snow.

* * *

Despite his unharmed skin, Jon wraps the youth up in his cloak while they search for his runaway horse. Thankfully, the poor creature didn’t travel too far in its fright, and Jon finds the steed easily.

When they reunite with the hunting party, the men don’t say a word about the strange boy sitting in front of Jon and wrapped up in his cloak, for they clearly see the same thing Jon does.

He decides to name him Connor, for the wolves he was found with.

For the wolf that was his mother.

He knows for certain that this child is his and Sansa’s son, just as certainly as he knew that Sansa was more than a mere wolf. It feels strange to hold a son in his arms that he didn’t know he had in the first place. He’s already missed so much…his birth, first steps, his first adventures…

But no matter, for Jon is here now. 

They arrive in Winterfell with no other issue. Jon decides to take Connor to the maester – just to be sure that he’s healthy. Making sure Connor is still bundled up in his cloak, he carries the boy to the maester’s turret. Neither of the newly reunited father or son notice that the icicles hanging just outside the doorway are dripping.

* * *

Connor is barely even recognizable from the wild boy Jon found in the snow. With his hair cut at a more manageable length and clothed in leather and wool, he looks every bit a crown prince of the North. Jon marvels at how much their son looks like Sansa, though he can see a bit of himself in the shape of his nose and whenever he frowns. It makes him miss her even more.

He hopes that Connor has an idea of what happened to Sansa. Through the combined efforts of a determined Jon and an even more determined maester, Connor learns to speak, and Jon sits him down for a much-anticipated discussion. 

“Do you remember your life before I found you?”

“I was with the wolf pack, but before that, another wolf raised me. She had red fur and blue eyes – like me. She was gentle, even though she was a wolf.”

Jon’s heart fills with hope. “What happened to her?”

Connor’s small face twists into a scowl. “There was a bad man. He visited us from time to time, and he would always ask the wolf a question, but the wolf would growl and bare her teeth at him and make him go away. The last time he came, he held a wand in his hand, and pointed it at her. She had no choice but to go with him, and she left me behind.” His blue eyes fill with tears.

Jon puts his arm around Connor while the boy wipes his eyes. “Do you remember where they went?”

“It was out on the big lake near where we lived. There was a tower right in the center of it. I tried to go after them, but I couldn’t swim…and then a fog rolled in and I could no longer see the tower.” Connor sniffs. “Not long after that, the wolf pack took me in.”

“She’s alive, then,” Jon murmurs to himself. That’s all that matters.

“She was my mother, wasn’t she, Papa?”

Jon squeezes his shoulder. “Yes, Connor, she was.”

“You’ll find her, won’t you? And bring her home?” His eyes are wide and hopeful.

“Aye,” he vows. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is where the original myth more or less ends, and we can't have that! Also, in the myth, the son is named Oisin ("little deer") in honor of his mom Sadhbh being an enchanted deer, so I chose the name Connor ("wolf love") for this fic. A more apt name probably would be Conan, but I kept on thinking of Conan the Barbarian or Conan O'Brien, and that wasn't working for me lol.


	5. The Gods

The white raven arrives signaling the dawn of spring, and the North rejoices. Jon, however, makes plans. He has an idea now from Connor’s tale where Sansa is, and as soon as the worst of the snows melt, he will set off.

“Take me with you.”

Jon doesn’t look up from sharpening Ice. “Connor, we talked about this.”

“ _You_ talked, but I didn’t agree!”

He lets out a weary sigh. Stubborn boy. His grandfather’s spirit is probably laughing at him right now. Connor tugs insistently at his sleeve, jolting Jon out of his musings and halting his progress. “Papa, the bad man has magic. And you’re just a mortal!”

“And you’re just a boy,” Jon counters sternly. He sets Ice aside and puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “And besides, we don’t know the extent of your magical abilities, if you even have any.”

Connor harrumphs, but doesn’t argue back. Jon hides a smile. He almost removes his hand to get back to sharpening Ice, but he feels Connor tense. His son looks frightened. “Did you hear that?” the boy asks in a hushed whisper.

Jon frowns and looks around the godswood. There’s no one here but them. “Hear what?”

Connor shivers. “I don’t know…it sounded like someone was saying, ‘We are coming.’”

* * *

That night, Jon dreams. 

He hasn’t a clue where he is, for his surroundings are cloaked by the inky blackness of night. The air is thick and almost suffocating, and Jon feels the back of his neck prick with sweat. Something lands on his cheek, making him jolt. Jon takes his index finger and wipes it off – water. Is it a raindrop? It is, for as soon as he realizes it, he hears more raindrops fall - _plop, plop, plop_ as they hit the earth…feels more of them land on him: soaking his hair, making his clothes stick to his skin.

This is no ordinary dream. Everything is too vivid…too real…

Lightning flashes as bright as day, revealing to Jon what once was hidden: he sees pale faces and red…so much red…all around him.

He’s at the Isle of Faces.

Why is he here? Why is he dreaming of this place, of all nights?

Thunder crashes, and the wind picks up, the rain biting as it hits his skin. Over the maelstrom, he hears voices echoing:

_We are coming._

_We are coming._

_We are coming._

_We are coming._

_We are coming._

“We are coming, Jon Stark.”

All at once, the storm ceases completely: no wind, no rain, no lightning or thunder. More utter darkness. Jon feels off-kilter by the confusion of it all. Then, the full moon peeks out from the clouds, illuminating the area. Jon blinks to adjust to the sudden light, and he sees more faces…but these don’t belong to the heart trees. Six beings, all adorned with weirwood crowns; two have dark hair like Jon, the others have hair as red as the weirwood leaves…as red as Sansa’s and Connor’s. “Who are you?” he asks.

The oldest of the group steps forward, his expression on his long face solemn. “Sansa’s family,” he answers, confirming Jon’s suspicions.

Another steps forward, then, his face an echo of the storm that just occurred. “Where is our sister?” he demands.

Indignation rises in Jon. “Oh, _now_ you’re worried about her? I have been searching for her all this time, I even prayed to you for help - what have you been doing?!”

“It’s your fault she went missing again!”

“Enough!” a woman who could be none other than Sansa’s mother scolds. She turns to Jon and says tersely, “We were only able to get here now, King Stark.”

Jon blanches. “How? Sansa said all doors were closed.”

“They were.” Another of Sansa’s brothers. His voice is calm and measured, his face void of expression. Jon notes with shock that his eyes are completely white. “There’s been a return of magic to your world. It’s small, but enough to finally open a doorway. I believe it will only grow stronger as time goes on.” Though his eyes appear sightless, he shoots Jon a knowing look. A chill goes down his spine. Connor’s the return of magic, he’s sure of it.

Though he hates to admit it, Jon needs all the help he can get to save Sansa. Who would be better than her godly relatives? “Varamyr has her hidden at Long Lake, I’m sure of it,” he tells them.

Sansa’s father nods tersely. “We will meet you there in three days’ time. Be there.”

“I will.”

Just before the dream (or is it a nightmare?) fades away completely, he hears the one with white eyes say, “Bring the child, mortal king.”

* * *

Connor doesn’t ask questions or talk during the journey to Long Lake, which is very unlike him. He probably senses Jon’s dark mood and is unwilling to unintentionally provoke him. Jon feels guilty about that, he doesn’t want his son to fear or be wary of him, and he makes a note to properly apologize when all of this is over.

He sees them just before the tree line ends. Now that he’s awake, Jon remembers their proper names from Sansa’s descriptions: Eddard and Catelyn are Sansa’s parents, Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon are her siblings. Robb and Bran were the brothers who spoke to Jon in the dream…between Robb’s ire and Bran’s…mysteriousness, he doesn’t know who he prefers. 

“I’ve done as you asked,” he tells them as he and Connor approach. He notices that all their eyes are on his son, and he smothers the surge of protectiveness going through him. _Like it or not, Connor is their family, too,_ he reminds himself. _He is their grandson and nephew._

“What is your name, boy?” Lord Eddard asks. 

“Connor,” he replies uncertainly. He turns and looks at Jon with questions in his eyes.

“They are your mother’s family, Connor,” Jon answers his unasked question. “They’re here to help save her.”

“Oh,” he says simply, eyeing the others with more interest now. 

Lord Eddard looks to Jon, then, and his expression hardens, his eyes turn to steel. “Now before we begin, I must ask: will you let Sansa go back home with us, where she belongs?”

Jon’s jaw clenches. “If she wishes it, then yes. I will not stop her.”

“Papa?”

“Not now, Connor,” he says, refusing to look at his son, who is no doubt giving him a look of betrayal right now.

“He speaks truly, Father,” a girl with a long dark braid says. Arya, Sansa’s sister.

Lord Eddard nods. “Very well.”

“And what if she wants to stay here?” Jon counters. “Will you allow that?”

An uncomfortably tense silence follows, then, “You have our word.” Surprisingly, it is the Lady Catelyn who says it.

“Very well.” Jon notes that no one looks happy by this turn of events. He changes the subject. “Now, why did you need Connor here? He’s too young to fight.”

“We just wanted to meet our nephew,” the youngest in the group, Rickon, says. Jon notes that Rickon could almost pass for Connor’s twin, save that his blue eyes seem more ancient somehow. “He’ll be safe with me, for I won’t be fighting, either,” he says, holding his hand out. Connor looks at Jon questioningly again.

“Go,” he assures. “It’s alright.”

He watches as Catelyn whispers something in Rickon’s ear, and when Connor reaches him, they head deeper into the forest. Jon sighs in relief.

“So, what’s the plan of attack?” he asks those who are left.

Robb speaks for the first time. “The plan is _we_ attack, while _you_ retrieve Sansa.”

“I’m surprised you’re entrusting a human with that.”

Robb smirks. “We’re not.” Jon doesn’t like the sound of that.


	6. The White Wolf

The tower shaking wakes Sansa from her doze. She sniffs the air curiously. Dust falling from the rafters. Sansa sneezes, and rises onto her four legs. She walks to the lone window in the chamber, technically an embrasure, and sniffs again. Magic, but not belonging to the skinchangers who live here. This magic is friendlier…and more familiar.

She turns as Varamyr stumbles into view, the top of his bald head gleaming with sweat. As ever whenever he graces her presence, Sansa snarls, making sure all of her fangs are visible. That is all she’s allowed to do to him, since he enchanted her never to attack him, but it still makes her feel better.

“Orell!” he calls, completely ignoring her. He hurries out of the room. Curious now, Sansa follows him. When next she sees him, he’s standing with Orell, the latter’s eyes rolled back in his head. They return to normal when Sansa gets close enough. He must have been warging into his eagle. 

“Orell, what did you see?”

“I… _they_ are here.” The thin man gives a pointed look Sansa’s way.

“Very well. Gather the others. We must defend this tower.”

When Orell slinks off, Sansa takes her chance. She makes a mad dash for the open doorway, but crashes headfirst into an invisible barrier, yelping in pain. Varamyr tucks his wand away into his robes.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You didn’t think you could escape so easily, did you?” Varamyr tuts. “I _was_ going to leave you here alone, but that’s not happening now.” His eyes go white, and moments later three wolves enter the room. “One Eye, Stalker, and Sly will guard you,” he tells Sansa with a smirk.

When Varamyr leaves, Sansa slowly backs away from his wolves. She hates them, especially Sly, who gets territorial around One Eye. So far, they don’t go after her, but she knows how easily provoked they are.

The sounds of battle drift up the tower’s stairs. Sansa wonders what’s happening, and more importantly, who’s winning. She notices the other wolves become more visibly agitated; they love a good fight, and they’re missing out on a very important one. And it’s because of her.

A wolf’s howl echoes throughout the tower. One Eye, Stalker, and Sly look at each other, unsure…but Stalker leaves the room to investigate.

The sounds of battle continue, and Sansa considers the two wolves that are left. She was unmatched against the three of them together…but maybe she can take two? And there is a chance Stalker could come back from investigating the mystery wolf howl. She also wonders about that…none of the other skinchangers had wolves to warg into, so it must belong to whoever is attacking. 

Her questions may soon be answered, for the unmistaken sounds of paws against the flagstones reach them. Sansa perks up, as well as One Eye and Sly. A wolf is approaching, but is it Stalker, or the other?

Fur as white as freshly fallen snow, frightening red eyes, muzzle stained red with what she assumes is Stalker’s blood, the other wolf stalks into the room.

Sansa doesn’t think – she acts. She attacks Sly while the white wolf attacks One Eye. She fights fiercer than she ever has before, biting and clawing everything within reach. She does not look to see how her ally is faring, despite how much she wants to. She has to focus. And amazingly, it works. Sly falls, and Sansa is victorious.

It appears as if the white wolf is, as well, though he doesn’t get out unscathed like Sansa does. She sees shallow scratches along his sides, though his worst wound is over his left eye.

They stare at each other, and something in Sansa clicks. If she could weep, she would. Jon. It’s Jon. She keens low in her throat, rushing over to lick his wounds clean. He nuzzles her back, to assure her that he’s alright.

* * *

The white wolf leads the red wolf out of the tower. Once they are clear of the stone structure, Sansa transforms into her normal form once more. Varamyr must have perished, then, and his magic with it. She lets out a weary laugh. She's finally free. She looks over at Jon, and sees that he's human also.

The tears Sansa wishes she could cry come freely now as she embraces Jon. “You came back for me,” she sobs into his chest, while he holds her just as tightly.

“Your family did as well,” he murmurs into her hair.

“They’re here?” Sansa looks up at him. The cut over his eye will leave a scar, but he’ll still be handsome to her.

Jon wipes her tears. “I’ll take you to them.”

Jon finds a boat and rows them back to shore. The battle is long over, it seems, but Sansa pays no attention to the destruction around her, for she spots her family alive and well. She weeps again as she embraces her mother and father, her sister and brothers. And when her son, her darling boy she made with Jon, runs towards her and calls her “Mama,” she holds onto him and never wants to let go.

“I named him Connor,” Jon murmurs in her ear.

“Connor,” she breathes. It’s perfect. _“Connor, Connor, Connor.”_

Connor twists a little in her arms and faces her father. “Papa is too noble to say it, but I’m not. Please don’t take my mother away.”

“Connor,” Jon weakly admonishes.

“No, Jon, it’s fine,” she whispers. She’s made her choice. She takes a deep breath and addresses her family, “You are my family, and I love you dearly, but they are my family, too. I don’t want to leave them.”

“And you won’t,” her mother says, smiling softly.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” her father answers. He peers at Jon. “King Jon is a good man. He would do right by you, my daughter.”

“And you can always visit,” Bran adds. “Magic is no longer dwindling here, and we can keep the paths between our worlds open.”

“So you better come by,” Arya mock threatens.

Sansa laughs wetly. She looks at Jon. “Can I stay?”

She’s never seen Jon smile so brightly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for your support! I hope everyone has a safe and happy holidays!


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